Honeymoons and Hostages
by MadameHappy
Summary: John would look back at this story and laugh to himself, for it had been a fairly ridiculous one. Though he would have to admit it was a very interesting wedding present. Set after the Sign of Three and before His Last Vow. Possible spoilers for those who haven't seen Season Three.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

To celebrate my inescapable entry into the FanFiction community I have decided to make a story. All constructive criticisms shall be welcome.

* * *

**Honeymoons and Hostages**

**By MadameHappy**

**Chapter 1**

One of these days John Watson was going to give into temptation and just kill Sherlock Holmes himself. The man was his best friend, his partner in crime (though if you asked Sherlock he would have called John his side kick), and the man he had killed for. But he was an infuriating _bastard._

Only Sherlock could commence the profanities of the usually ever patient doctor. Only Sherlock would require physical venting. However only Sherlock would be able to (with trickery or not) receive forgiveness when everything was said and done. He was Sherlock Holmes. He was an impossible man, but also John's impossible friend.

John would look back at this story and laugh to himself, for it had been a fairly ridiculous one. Though he would have to admit it was a most interesting wedding present.

John had been married to his fiance for a week already and hadn't yet spent a honeymoon with her. They were planning of course, but it was difficult- so many places to go, so many different plans, and John and Mary were determined to meet in the middle with their agreements. Their budget remained untouched for days.

A day after the end of the week however, John found his miracle in the form of Sherlock Holmes. Then again miracles always happened around him.

It began with a simple text message:

**_Baker Street if convenient. SH_**

John being John he went, of course, and found Sherlock in the middle of a thorough over-analysis of a hat, so intense he didn't notice him come in.

"-a fedora, quite small, quite used, splotches of dust and dirt here and there, dried off recently, most of these in America but some delving to other parts of the globe. Small hat, too small for an adult, too big even for a five year old, an infant could wear it-" Then he glanced up. "Ah, John, perfect."

He tossed the fedora carelessly away and stood up from his armchair, looking John up and down once. "I see your unresolved honeymoon plan with Mary has remained, ah, unresolved."

John nodded once and stuffed his hands to his jacket, coughing expectantly. "So what did you want to see me about? Is that hat anything to do with it?"

"Hm?" Sherlock glanced at the fedora. "Oh no, just an old thing some maintenance workers up in the Big Ben found inside the clock works when the hand stopped ticking. Thought it would be part of some 'imminent terrorist attack'." He rolled his eyes. "Idiots. The fedora got stuck between the cogs, obviously an accident. But the hat is-"

John coughed again. "Maybe that can wait, yeah? What did you want to see me about?"

Sherlock's head swiveled back to John, eyes confused for a second before lighting up again, remembering. "Ah yes." He grabbed an old brochure from his desk and slapped it down on the coffee table. John picked it up and looked at the title.

"Soissons?" He read aloud.

"Yes, prime spot, thought it would be perfect." Sherlock smiled widely. "A lovely little town in France, very close to Paris so you and Mary can have your little sight-seeing, and it's warm, especially now, so you can rest peacefully." He brought his fingers together under his chin. "What do you think?"

John looked through the brochure. It _did _look lovely. He looked up at Sherlock in both confusion (because really, _why _was he doing this) and hesitation. "It might be a bit costly-"

"Oh, nothing to worry about." Sherlock spun around and went to the kitchen, out of John's view. "Mycroft hasn't given you a wedding gift yet. It shouldn't be difficult for him, getting someone to fly you. And I know an inn keeper who owes me a favour."

"Wait, wait." John was smiling now. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are planning my honeymoon? _You?_"

Sherlock poked his head out to the living room, looking vaguely offended. "Come now John. I planned your wedding."

"You tried to make the theme medical."

"Suits both your professional and personal lives in one word."

"And you wanted the wedding cake to explode."

"_Heart-shaped wedding cake_. A bit of a small jest and of course, a heart exploding is rather romantic-"

"Then the actual cake comes up-"

"_Ooh,_ I love this one."

"And the actual cake is a-"

"Gun," Sherlock finished, coming out of the kitchen with two cups of tea. "And it would have been possible, if it were not for the fact that the bakers'-"

"Honestly!" John laughed, tossing the brochure back to the coffee table. "Admit it! When it comes to planning social gatherings you can make one right mess out of it! I'm just glad Mary was there to talk some sense into you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Traditional. Boring."

John crossed his arms, looking amused. "As if you could plan out a perfect wedding."

Sherlock smirked. "Is that a challenge, Doctor Watson?"

"God, spare me," John shook his head. "Maybe if it's Mycroft's wedding you're planning out."

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, don't count on it, Mycroft is a hopeless case with love." He rubbed his face once and looked over to John, his eyes still looking at him questionably. "What do you think then, do you like it?"

John looked at the brochure. It was a historical town, one of the most ancient in France, and only just about a hundred kilometres from Paris. It had everything he knew Mary was looking for- culture, history, art- while it had everything John was looking for- a beautiful view, a warm climate and an inn. He was quite sure Mary would jump at the sight of it.

Throwing away all suspicions, he smiled at him and nodded.

"I like it."

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Excellent." In two large strides he spun John around, placed the brochure in his hands and pushed him out the door. "Tell Mary, make plans, give me the date. Evening!"

Before John could say anything Sherlock had slammed the door in his face.

Sherlock was right; Mary loved it. John texted the planned date to Sherlock and they started making arrangements.

As they went to bed that night John wondered what had gotten into the man. This wasn't like him, planning honeymoons.

Oh well, he thought to himself as he closed his eyes. If Sherlock wants to help, let it be.

He slept, worry free.

* * *

Chapter two will be up if I have the time, or if writer's block doesn't get me first.

Oh, and if you noticed the very small crossover with the fedora, I commend you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"...And just _when _were you planning on telling me that you were coming along?"

Sherlock straightened his coat. "Well it was obvious, wasn't it?"

John groaned and rubbed his face with one long-suffering stroke. He should have known. He should have _known_ this was going to happen.

After a week of planning John and Mary boarded the rather luxurious private jet that Mycroft had so generously provided, feeling happy, excited, and ready for a nice peaceful two weeks without work and stress.

At least until the epitome of work and stress strolled out of the airplane's flight deck, wearing a steward's hat and a smirk.

Now John was just colossally pissed off. He paced the almost empty airplane (god, Sherlock's theatrics were growing on him), and he glared at the offending, potentially honeymoon-wrecking force that was Sherlock _bloody _Holmes.

"This is a honeymoon, Sherlock. You know, where two married people go out _alone_, have fun _alone_, no friends, no work?"

Sherlock looked unperturbed as he removed the hat and ruffled his hair. In fact he had the gall to look amused, which just poked at John's nerves even more.

"Please John, it's not like I'm going to barge into your bedroom sessions." He sat down on one of the seats of the plane and spread his legs out, making himself comfortable.

John wiped his face again and put his hands on his hips. He turned to Mary, who was appallingly calm as she read her book. "Don't you have _anything_ to say about this?"

Mary smiled and glanced up. "_You_ look like you do."

"Of course I bloody do! Sherlock Holmes just somehow slid himself into _our honeymoon._"

"I did not _slide_ into your honeymoon. I recommended a prime spot and you accepted it. Hardly sliding."

"I didn't expect you to come with us!"

"Mistake for you then, you should have expected me. Again, it was obvious."

John held a hand up. "You know what? Shut up. Just shut up." He sighed and turned back to Mary, gesturing to Sherlock and looking exasperated. "Really, you've got nothing to say?"

"John love, if there was anyone I would have expected to come with us to our honeymoon, Sherlock would be at the top of my list." Mary still didn't look up as she patted the seat next to hers. John sat begrudgingly.

Sherlock had taken out his phone. "Don't worry John, I have no intention of ruining your little sex holiday."

"Could you _please _stop calling it that?"

"Hm, not planning to."

Mary chuckled to herself as John rubbed his face and sighed. God, he hoped he could survive this.

* * *

By the end of the flight, John was on the verge of strangling someone. Hell, he would have gladly strangled Sherlock if Sherlock was within his kill zone. Unfortunately, the sly cock placed himself strategically three feet away, and next to Mary, so there was no way for John to fatally hurt him.

He was left to his murderous inventions as he grabbed a cab to take them out of Paris and into Soissons. Sherlock slid into the front seat, still avoiding John's twitching hands.

"The inn is near the outskirts of Soissons," Sherlock said lightly as they drove, looking at John and seemingly oblivious to the glare he was shooting him. "I booked you the biggest room for whatever you may choose to do and I got you a dinner reservation back in Paris at the _Terminus Nord_."

"A dinner reservation?" John raised an eyebrow. "What, got a cook there that owes you a favour?"

"No, but you're lucky Mycroft added the reservation to the sex holiday package; otherwise you would owe me..." Sherlock calculated. "Two thousand Euros. Plus tax."

John didn't even bother to say anything as Sherlock looked back out the window.

"You'll like Soissons, very friendly people. Hour's drive to Paris though, that's one flaw. Closer than other towns though."

That's all Sherlock talked about for the rest of the trip, as was expected, though his knowledge of ancient France was surprisingly plentiful. Even so, John wasn't listening. Throughout the whole trip and since Sherlock made his appearance in the airplane, John had been wondering what he was up to.

This wasn't just a simple tag-along. Sherlock could be the laziest bum when he wanted to be, and why did he want to be in _France_, where there were no crimes to solve (at least no interesting ones) and probably no excitement?

No- Sherlock had an ulterior motive in coming here, even in recommending the place, and John wanted to know what for two reasons.

One: as angry as he was at the moment he didn't want this twat in too much danger. Emphasis on _too. _

Two: he wanted to know how badly this would ruin his honeymoon.

"Soissons is famous for some of its Gothic architecture," Sherlock continued on as they got out of the cab an hour later, making their walk to the inn. "Their historic architecture is mainly religious, but it has a very rich history. It was a major medieval city before-"

"How do you know so much?" Mary finally asked, eyebrow raised.

"A big secret of mine is that I'm rather a fan of ancient French history." Seeing the look on her face, he sighed. "Wikipedia."

After getting their reservation and looking at the room, John's temper faded. Their bedroom was decent, and it had a balcony with a good view of Soissons, which John could see that Sherlock was right about. It was a beautiful town.

Letting out a large breath, he turned around to Sherlock, who was standing by the doorway and crossed his arms, looking stern. Even if he didn't find out what he was here for, he wanted assurance.

"So you won't be interfering with anything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll do my best not to interfere with your sex-"

"Sherlock."

"Oh very well, _honeymoon._ Scout's honour." Sherlock crossed his heart and held up his hand, showing John he was serious in the most ridiculously childish way he could.

John let out a breath and nodded. "Are you staying in the same inn?"

"Two floors below," Sherlock replied, grabbing his suitcase and leaving the room. "Best make yourselves comfortable. Reservation's at eight. Happy honeymoon!" He smiled a wide smile before shutting the door.

As soon as he left, Mary walked over to John, wrapping her arms around him. "I think it's awfully sweet, what he's doing," she said.

John laughed. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't do sweet," he stated. "I know there's something behind all this."

"Even if there is, look," Mary gestured to the room. "We're having our honeymoon, we'll be seeing the sights," she grinned and kissed his cheek. "Couldn't have asked for anything better."

John smiled. "Come on, Mrs. Watson. Let's get unpacked. We've got a dinner date."

* * *

When Sherlock entered his room, he was not at all surprised to find Mycroft lounging pleasantly on a chair, looking up at him with a sardonic smile. In fact he was secretly preparing for it.

"What did I tell you?" Mycroft stood up. "I knew you couldn't resist."

Sherlock removed his coat. "Spare the 'I-told-you-so's for later Mycroft, give me the details."

"Of course." Mycroft handed him a file. Sherlock flicked through the photos. Scheduled dates, photos of tourists, CDs with CCTV footage. The one that caught his attention was a picture of the Louvre Museum, and a rather crude painting of various splotches. The painting looked amateurish, almost _too_ amateur for the Louvre.

"You're getting slow Mycroft," Sherlock mocked, shutting the file. "A day before you noticed the painting was counterfeit?"

Ignoring the jest, Mycroft continued. "Someone stole that painting the previous night. It contains a valuable piece of information."

"Should have guessed, it's a horrible painting," Sherlock replied, smirking. "Did you paint it?"

"Don't be smart." Mycroft looked stern. "We kept it in The Louvre for a reason."

"Obviously."

"Get it back and I'll knight you."

"Oh, isn't that rich?" Sherlock twirled his fingers and inspected his nails. "Sir Sherlock Holmes, what a nice ring to it. Unfortunately for you I don't toady for the sake of having the Queen tap a stick at my shoulders and giving me an extra name I don't need. I don't need an incentive, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled slyly. "Yes you do."

Sherlock looked up and narrowed his eyes at him. Mycroft continued. "I seem to recall you saying that you'll take the case, but only if Doctor Watson-"

"John and Mary deserve a good honeymoon, don't you think?"

"Oh I have every right to think so," Mycroft smiled widely. "If it weren't for you."

Sherlock stared at him with a glower, knowing the message behind it. "I'm not going to ruin his honeymoon Mycroft."

"Oh, of course you won't."

_"Mycroft."_

"I'll see you at dinner." Mycroft said cheerily, taking his leave.

Sherlock glared at the door as it closed.

* * *

Oh yes, I probably should mention, I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or any of the places I've mentioned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

For the rest of the afternoon, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John didn't know whether to be suspicious or not, but spending time with Mary didn't leave him much time to think about Sherlock for too long, as much as he wanted to figure out what was going on.

Before he knew it, it was seven, and they were going out of the inn to find a way back into Paris. That's when John received a text:

**_Transportation taken care of. SH_**

"John!"

John looked up and turned to see Mary staring at a very sleek, very black, very _expensive-looking_ limousine that was turning the corner. When it stopped to a halt in front of them, the window of the front seat rolled down, and John found himself staring face-to-face with Sherlock, who looked at them with a proud smirk that clearly said _'look at this, a limousine'_.

"Thought you might want something luxurious for your trip. The cab ride was ghastly."

John helped Mary inside before he got in, looking close to incredulous. "Where the hell did you get the money for this?"

"I don't need to repeat the source."

John didn't feel like he did either. "Mycroft."

"See?" Sherlock said lightly as he closed up the window. "I wouldn't have come with you but I need a ride to Paris." Sherlock looked at John. "You don't mind, do you?"

"What for?"

"Mm, to see some sights," Sherlock replied vaguely.

The limousine dropped John and Mary off first when they arrived at Paris. John found himself staring up at a very fancy looking bistro. He immediately felt underdressed.

Sherlock nodded at them as they left. "Text when it's over," was all he said as the driver drove off again.

John held out his arm for Mary, and together they walked to their dinner reservation. He kept a smile on his face. He was going to enjoy tonight. He hadn't had decent food in a long time.

* * *

The limousine drove to the back of the restaurant, and came to a halt.

"That went well," Mycroft piped up behind the steering wheel.

"Yes," Sherlock's fingers came together under his chin. "Yes, I suppose it did."

"You're not being yourself today."

"Says the man wearing the fake mustache."

Mycroft tugged at the rather bushy mustache that matched his brownish-ginger. "The pains I must take to hide my involvement."

"Remind me to take photographs."

Mycroft sighed behind the steering wheel. "You will be wearing a disguise throughout the case as well, I dare hope?"

Sherlock took out a set of clothes from the glove compartment and tapped on it lightly. "Decided to go for blonde French artist today."

"Theatrical as always, brother dear."

Sherlock glanced at him, a tiny grin on his face. "I _live_ for it."

"Now then." Mycroft said putting on a golfer's cap and a pair of spectacles. "You read the suspect list?"

"Jean Porteau, a waiter in the _Terminus Nord_, seen thirty minutes before the painting disappeared." Sherlock said lazily as put on a blonde wig.

"Look at him, go through his actions and see if he's unimportant."

"What would a waiter want with a painting?"

"You tell me."

Sherlock and Mycroft left the limo. To the public eye they were entirely different people.

Sherlock was wearing a black sweater and jeans, as well as a pair of sunglasses and a camera. His blackish brown curls were hidden behind a long lustrous-looking blonde wig, which was tied up to a ponytail. Finally, with a few tricks, he managed to give himself a blonde stubble beard.

Mycroft had a bushy mustache that hid away his upper lip. His eyebrows changed as well to something fuzzier. The golfer's cap and the change of eye colour with the round spectacles made him look nothing like the prestigious British official he actually was.

Mycroft had reserved a table for the two of them under the name Miles Le Créft (Sherlock rolled his eyes). On their way to the table Sherlock could spot Mary and John laughing in the other side of the room, oblivious to his case.

As soon as they reached their table, a waiter came over. As if by mere coincidence it was Porteau.

_'Bonjour monsieur,' _the waiter told them in succulent French. _'I am Jean and I'll be your waiter for this evening.'_

As Mycroft ordered for the two of them, Sherlock scanned him over.

_Romantic, thorough, neat, financially troubled, divorced. Suspicious character?_

_'It should be ready within fifteen minutes sir._' Sherlock glared at the waiter as soon as his back was turned.

_NOT ENOUGH DATA._

As the waiter left, Sherlock stood up. "Need to get to his locker, see if he's suspicious."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"Don't have to tell me."

"I'll stop when I trust you."

"Painful." Sherlock darted away from his table and went to the management's locker room.

Thankfully it was empty when he opened the door, so he didn't have to worry about any security escorting him out as long as he was quick. He found the locker at the end of the hall. _Porteau's initials engraved to the metal label. Polished copper, sentimental, had the job for a while, ideal worker, _he deduced.

Figuring out the combination was child's play which was _so obviously his birthday_ and he was not disappointed by his guess. He was very disappointed by the lack of stolen painting however, when he opened it and found nothing but a set of casual wear. Even looking at his clothes he could see the innocence.

_Was just an art enthusiast._

He was on the verge of closing the locker when he heard the creak of the locker room door.

_"Oi!"_

Sherlock spun his head at the sound of a very angry, very buff manager. What made it worse was the fact that he just cracked open a locker that was obviously not his and that did _not_ give him the opportunity to pull out the Drunk card.

* * *

John looked up from his plate at the sound of crashing and screaming Frenchmen. Immediately he could see what was wrong.

A blonde man wearing sunglasses that were lopsided from his running was running away from a furious waiter and restaurant manager. It was amusing to some, appalling to the other occupants of the restaurant, who were laughing and gasping as the blonde man pushed past their tables, spilling glasses and bottles of wine.

He was chased out the back entrance, and unfortunately John's table was in the way. The blonde haired man tried to push past it and before John knew it his table was lying on its side with their food spilling over his and Mary's clothes, wine splashing the floor and mixing with the pasta.

"Oh, monsieur, my apologies!" panted the manager. Waiters were immediately upon them, trying to fix the damage done, but John waved it away somewhat grumpily and grabbed Mary's hand, texting Sherlock to get the limo over as he pulled her out of the restaurant.

The limo came a few minutes later. Sherlock was seated on the driver's seat this time, and he was staring at John with some amusement on his face.

"You've got-"

"I _know_," John snapped. "Some bloke pushed our table over, it was chaos."

Sherlock hummed as they began their drive. "Wonder who that could be."

* * *

Back at the restaurant, Mycroft's food arrived, and he dug in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"I do recall telling you not to do anything stupid."

Sherlock paced his inn room as Mycroft watched, an unsympathetic smile grazing his features, which did not help Sherlock's mood in the slightest.

"Well what _else_ was I supposed to do, Mycroft?"

"To pick one from the five or six that present themselves, I would say you could have avoided the table."

Sherlock stopped his pacing finally and turned to glare at him. "You knew he was innocent."

"You can never be too careful."

"You can. Especially you. What is so important about such a document? Tell me."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, challenging him implicitly. "Document?"

Sherlock turned to his suitcase, shuffling papers around absently. "Yes, documents, obviously, hidden in the painting. Then again they could have stolen the documents and left the painting behind unless..." His eyes light up and he smirked. "Always one for the dramatic, aren't you brother dear? The documents can't be deciphered unless the painting-"

"Rattle on all you like about what's in or not the back, I will not be telling you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Mycroft wouldn't hear of it, it seemed, because he stood up, briefcase in hand, moving to leave. "Time to pay John a little visit, brother dear. There's an exhibit in the Louvre that you might find... eye-catching."

Mycroft brandished a VIP card and dropped it to Sherlock's awaiting hand as he passed by him. "Go over Madame Lochelle, a worker in the Louvre." He stopped before he left and turned, a twitch in his mouth.

"And who knows? Maybe this could better the honeymoon. Isn't Mary an art enthusiast?"

"Again Mycroft, I don't need an incentive." Sherlock snatched up the file and looked over Madame Lochelle's profile before waving him out of the door. "Leave."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and closed the door.

* * *

When Sherlock invited John and Mary to see some paintings at the Louvre museum, John wasn't to be disappointed.

The Louvre museum was a grand palace of architecture and art- or at least that's what Mary would say. John wasn't the most poetic person he's ever known and it would certainly stay that way. The moment the limo was parked and they were walking in, Sherlock brandished out a VIP card and the security guard nodded at them, letting them in without a fee.

John didn't even bother to ask anymore.

Throughout the whole course of the trip, Mary was looking through paintings and somehow finding out a bit of information about each and every one of them. "They say that the Last Supper holds a musical piece... The Mona Lisa is famous for being stolen in a Louvre heist...Plus, it is believed that-"

And so on. While Mary was doing all the talking, Sherlock was silent. Besides a few comments here and there about the tourists, he remained a quiet observer. John didn't know whether to be surprised or not. For although Sherlock tended to be cricket quiet at the oddest of times, John also knew him as one of the most talkative observers he's ever known.

It was only where they got to the end of the gallery where Sherlock made any distinguishing reactions. John and Mary had finally reached a painting that, to John, seemed merely like smudges of ink and poster paint. Of course there was a meaning behind it that he wasn't aware of so he just let Mary do all the talking again.

"Oh, you can really see the quality of the paint here, all the colours. I think this is a message of how colourful existence is, don't you think so John? So many different colours, all of them yet to be seen."

John noticed the very odd silence of both Sherlock's mouth and feet and he turned to look at him. His eyes have widened considerably and his cupid lips were parted. He blinked once, then twice, then his wide eyes narrowed up again.

Mary noticed it and smiled at him. "Like the painting Sherlock? You barely even noticed the others."

Sherlock took a few steps closer to the painting. "Yes, yes the quality of this portrait is so very..." Sherlock sucked in a breath, and his eyes dulled back. "Genuine."

Before John could say anything else, Sherlock swiftly walked down a corner and disappeared from view.

* * *

"The painting isn't _fake_, Mycroft."

_"How can you be certain?"_

"The paint." Sherlock was pacing outside of the museum, gripping his hair in aggravation as he gripped his phone tightly. "It wasn't nearly the same as the photo you gave me, the quality's different now."

_"You cannot possibly judge the authenticity of the painting using a comparison to a photo."_

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, glaring down at the phone. "Come here and see for yourself," he hissed.

_"I'm busy. I will, of course, take a look in my free time but until then, look for the suspect." _

The dull dial tone from his phone made Sherlock want to throw it against the wall. Sighing in frustration, he turned and went back into the museum.

Sherlock found John and Mary in the Louvre's souvenir shop. It seems like John was waiting for him, because the moment he entered, John was standing in front of him.

"What happened back there? Why'd you leave?" John asked suspiciously.

Sherlock waved it away. "Nothing." He stared at John intently, as if daring to question him. John merely sighed, and went back to Mary, who was looking at a souvenir. As they apparently looked busy Sherlock took this opportunity to go back to the painting and see what he had missed.

This time he took more detail to the state of the painting now, rather than the paint.

Small curl of the paper at the corners of the painting. Someone checked the back from when it was taken out, judging by the prominence of the curl on the top right. So there was something hidden behind the painting, something thin so that it wouldn't be conspicuous. A document. A piece of paper, probably.

_There is a good exhibit in the Louvre that you might find to be... eye-catching._

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to the painting. What was supposed to be eye-catching, the painting? Mycroft apparently didn't know it was replaced with the real one so it couldn't have been that. What would have been so eye-catching about the fake painting, unless...

Sherlock stepped away from the painting. He needed to pay a visit to Madame Lochelle.

* * *

"I swear Sherlock's up to something."

"I'm thinking of buying this kitten."

John had started to pace the souvenir shop (again, he really had to stop doing that), ranting his head off while Mary watched wearily, holding a decorative porcelain kitten in her hands.

"Think about it. Why would Sherlock want to come to a honeymoon of all things where there are no cases, there is nothing stimulating-"

"The kitten's rather cute, don't you think?"

"And did you see him today? Quiet as a cricket, didn't say a word until he saw the painting-"

"Might make a good piece for the bedside table, what do you think?"

John stopped his pacing and turned to Mary. "I swear, if this ruins the trip, I _will_ kill him."

Mary put down the porcelain kitten and put a hand on John's shoulder, smiling. "John, snap out of it, stop thinking about whatever Sherlock's up to, and let's buy that kitten, shall we?"

John looked at Mary, down at the kitten, and sighed, taking the kitten from her hands and going over to the counter. "You haven't said a thing about anything since he got here, aren't you even a _little bit suspicious?"_

Mary sighed. "I'm not thinking about Sherlock because I'm thinking of us, John."

"_I'm _thinking of us, I'm worried that he'd ruin the honeymoon!"

Mary looked at him. "John." She held his arm. "Nothing terrible has happened yet, other than the dinner, and we know that's not Sherlock."

John thought about it. Mary was right. So far nothing's gone wrong, other than the dinner fiasco, and that wasn't Sherlock's fault. Was he just being a little too harsh to Sherlock? In John's defence, he had every right to smell a rat- any attempt of social interaction on Sherlock's fault almost always resulted in either someone almost dying or someone humiliated.

Perhaps this time it was going to be different, if John dared hope it to be different.

John nodded, putting a hand on top of hers. "Lots of things can happen around Sherlock Holmes, Mary, and, well, I've learned from all of it. You do that after a while, suspect that something's going to happen."

Mary smiled reassuringly. "Well let's trust him, just for now, yeah? What can he do, really?"

Sherlock had apparently chosen that time to reappear from wherever he's been. John noted the look of satisfaction on his face and the sudden one-eighty of his mood, which has transformed from it's silent brooding to a vigorous liveliness.

The rest of the tour was spent with Sherlock in this happy state until they drove back to the inn.

"Like art, Mary?" he asked lightly from the driver's seat. "What sorts?"

Mary smiled. "Oh, you know, the classics. The Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, anything with a mystery in it. Your sort of thing too, I imagine?"

"Oh, I prefer those seemingly meaningless paintings," Sherlock gripped at the stirring wheel a little tightly his expression excited. "Those never seem to make any sense, and yet_..."_

John was tempted to ask him what the hell he was talking about, but he resisted. Instead he let his mind rest, letting his suspicions fly away.

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock was formulating a plan in his head.


End file.
